


You bleed, we crawl, like animals

by poisonedlace



Category: DCU (Comics), Red Hood/Arsenal (Comics)
Genre: Also rated teen for Jason's violent death and subsequent trauma, Because DC canon doesn't exist anyways, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotions, He could be better, Hurt/Comfort, I like Bruce but in relation to Jason, I only slightly bash Bruce, I wrote this over the span of like five weeks, Injury, Jason is emotionally stunted, Lazarus Pit, M/M, Mentions of Death, Nightmares, Not for everyone folks, Rated teen for swearing, Resurrection scars, as in dying and coming back always leaves marks, because it's JASON, blatant disregard of canon, body image issues, dissociation mention/description, i made canon my bitch, no beta we die like robins, tagging is hard, upon which this fic is based
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:14:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26157865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisonedlace/pseuds/poisonedlace
Summary: Jason doesn't really worry about what he looks like, until he does. Roy's there to help him, because he always is. Jason has a little bit of a freak out. Nothing's really ok but they're trying.AKA The author really likes Jason and Jayroy but also hates that all versions of canon disregard the actual trauma portion of dying brutally and coming back to life. Also your fav comic character is gay and poc because I say so. Not relevant to the story but I think it's worth noting. Feel free to comment about mistakes or whatever, again, no beta we die like Robins, it's 6 am and I haven't slept.Title: Silhouettes by Of Monsters and Men
Relationships: Roy Harper/Jason Todd
Comments: 16
Kudos: 179





	You bleed, we crawl, like animals

Jason knows he’s not exactly a looker. He died brutally at fifteen years old, he wasn’t even done with puberty yet. He likes to think though, that if he wasn’t a child soldier who was beaten with a crowbar and then actually blown up, he would’ve been rather attractive. As it is, the Lazarus pit put him at 20 years old in peak physical condition, but even magic has its limit.

At first it didn’t bother him. He was busy with training—Talia’s doing, she didn’t think he knew she was distracting him, but it didn’t matter, really—then he found out about Damian and did his best to help raise him. Nothing really mattered to him beyond Damian and eventually getting his revenge, and by that time he expected to be dead again anyways. He was too focused to bother with his appearance beyond attempting not to embarrass Talia.

Then the anger, the bombs, and the fights all tinged with the green of the pit gave way to grudging alliances and awkward family dinners, and suddenly he found himself surrounded by his ungodly attractive family members.

He’s aware of what he looks like. He is. He’s too tall, too broad, brought back from the dead with more scars than he died with and a shock of white hair marking him as an impossibility. His limbs are awkward when he’s not in battle, he still feels like the fifteen-year-old who died in that warehouse.

It’s something he’s aware of, but he doesn’t give it much thought. Unfortunately, life likes to fuck him over and it gets shoved into his face.

He’s legally alive again at this point, a necessity since someone filmed him and Dick in civvies having an argument in an alley and posted it to Twitter. Seriously those motherfuckers on Twitter have some resources, and even Jason’s impressed. One user literally used facial recognition to confirm that it was Bruce Wayne’s dead second son. They got a job offer from the Red Hood. Luckily, Tim is better at alibis than Bruce and spun it like Jason’s death was nearly real, and they let people believe it for his safety.

Jason’s just managed to bribe the bartender into pouring him a double at one of Bruce’s galas, despite Dick hovering over his shoulder, when a woman approaches them.

Dick, ever the charmer, greets her.

“Dick Grayson in the flesh. It’s nice to meet you.” Jason idly notices that her lipstick is the same color as Roy’s suit. It matches her dress and heels, but Jason thinks she should’ve gone with a darker color.

Dick flashes a charming smile and says, “I could say the same. What’s your name?”

“Amelia Brown. My mother runs a company that Mr. Wayne recently invested in. This is a lovely party, although I was hoping for better company.” Her voice is sickly sweet, and Jason has to take a drink to avoid gagging.

Dick, however, doesn’t flinch. “Perhaps you’ve found it. This is my little brother Jason. I apologize for his rudeness, he’s not exactly good with people.”

Jason drags himself upright and offers a hand for Amelia to shake.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure having to fake your death isn’t quite beneficial to your social skills.” Her smile sharpens like a wolf baring its teeth and Jason goes on-edge immediately.

He smiles back, more baring his teeth than anything, and replies, “Not quite. Luckily I have my-“ He wraps an arm around Dick’s shoulders, “-wonderful older brother to help out.”

Amelia’s stare turns predatory, and Jason can feel Dick stiffen. It’s not perceptible to anyone but a bat or their teammates, but he knows Dick is uncomfortable. Jason sighs inwardly and resigns himself to his fate.

“Hey Dick, I think I see Damian over by the staircase. Why don’t you go check up on him?”

Dick shoots Jason a grateful smile and gently excuses himself. Amelia watches him go.

“I bet it’s rough for you.” She says after a pause.

Jason rolls his eyes and knocks back the rest of his alcohol. “What’d’ya mean?”

“Having _that_ as your older brother. I mean, not to be rude, but he’s _Dick Grayson_. He’s hot to literally everyone.”

Jason slid on the most convincing smirk he could. “And I’m not?”

Amelia laughs, tapping her nails—red again, Roy would’ve made some snarky remark about stealing color schemes—on a champagne glass he doesn’t remember her having. “I mean, no offense, but the skunk streak isn’t exactly cute.”

The smirk drops and he pushes the glass back to the bartender. “Well you certainly don’t sugarcoat things, Ms. Brown.”

He straightens up and is uncomfortably aware of the bulk he’s not used to. Six feet and three inches of height that doesn’t even really belong to him means he towers over Amelia. If he were to hazard a guess, he’d say she was 5’6 at the most.

“I didn’t mean to offend-“ She attempts to say.

Jason holds up a hand. “It’s alright. I appreciate the honesty, if we’re sharing. As it is, though, I think one of my other siblings is up to something, and as the second oldest, it’s my duty to make sure they don’t pull something. Have a nice night, Ms. Brown.”

He walks away before she can respond. He knows it’s rude, but he can’t quite bring himself to care.

He makes nice with a couple more rich assholes in suits and dresses that cost more than his mother’s apartment on his way to where Bruce and Tim are schmoozing up some construction CEO. It takes most of his willpower not to snap at any of them. The rest goes to not pulling out the knife he’d hidden in the lining of his suit.

He pulls Tim aside enough to whisper, “I’m out. If one more rich person stares at me like I’ve grown a second head, I’m pulling a Glock,” and then he leaves. He slides through the shadows around the edges of the ballroom, expertly dodges Dick, who was distracted enough trying to convince Damian not to stab anyone not to notice him.

He scales the stairs, nabs his duffel bag, does a quick-change so fast that Broadway would be proud, and leaves through the back door.

As he speeds through Gotham on a motorcycle he stole from the Batgarage, he wonders why it even bothered him. Why the way a rich woman who didn’t care about him beyond making nice for her mother saw him even mattered.

He tells himself it’s just his disdain for people showing through, but he can’t hide the thought that he’s lying to himself.

He pushes the speed even more.

Once he’s safely locked inside a safehouse he’s reasonably certain that Tim doesn’t know about, he grabs the hair dye Roy left from his last undercover mission and tries to dye the streak of white that marks him as an anomaly. When he rinses it out, the dye disappears and leaves that stark, silver-white he’s come to dread seeing in mirrors.

If he has to replace the mirrored door of the medicine cabinet with a bandaged fist the next day, it’s none of anyone’s business.

The next time it’s pointed out, it’s someone he knows, and somehow that makes it worse. It was an offhand comment by Jon to Damian. He wasn’t even supposed to hear it. The two youngest vigilantes were holed up in Damian’s room playing some game that Tim once explained as ‘animals but capitalism’ and Jason had just been passing by.

“So, you like, came back from the dead, right?” Jon asks. It’s a kick in the gut every time Jason hears it, a stark reminder that he wasn’t there for his little brother when he needed it the most.

Damian scoffs and there’s the sound of what Jason assumes to be one of them shuffling around on the bed. “Tt. Yes. What brought on such a question?”

It’s no secret Damian doesn’t like to talk about his resurrection. Jason doesn’t either. They bond over that. Resurrection nightmares are a different breed and Jason had stayed at the manor for a while just to help Damian manage them.

“I was just wondering- Well, why don’t you look like Jason?” Jon’s voice is quiet, and if Jason hadn’t been slightly inhuman since that fucking pit, he wouldn’t have heard it. He stops in his tracks, the old copy of _A Secret History_ he’d been idly turning the pages to closing softly. The scar on his chest itches.

Damian scoffs again, but Jason can hear something akin to disgust behind it. “Todd was dead for a fair amount of time before his resurrection. He went through not only an autopsy but at least one stage of decomposition before he was returned. Add on the Lazarus Pit, and physical changes were simply inevitable.”

Jason’s the one that explained it to him, but hearing the condescension and disgust in his little brother’s voice listening worse than saying it.

He barely notices when the book slides out of his hands, barely remembers picking it up and waving off Damian and Jon as he walks away from whatever the hell that was.

It takes him two hours to stop feeling entirely disconnected from his body. For most of that time, he’s tucked in a dark corner of the library he’s certain even Alfred hasn’t been before. He spends the last thirty minutes of that time tugging at the white hairs he can’t seem to get rid of.

His phone has thirteen texts and eight calls from Dick, three texts from Tim, two voicemails from Damian, and even a slightly less monotone text from Bruce himself by the time he manages to feel human again. Luckily, he’s very good at fooling people over text.

This time he doesn’t even bother telling himself he’s not running away from whatever psychological bullshit keeps fucking up his ability to function. He steals another motorcycle from Bruce because the fucker doesn’t even ride, why the hell does he have so many? He knows it’s because he prefers them to cars, knows he’s the only Wayne legally allowed to use the normal non-bat themed bikes, knows that if Bruce had tried to gift him one he would’ve spat in his face.

It doesn’t really matter, though. He just needs to get out.

He doesn’t bother checking which safehouse he lands face-first on the couch of, but once he’s slept through another two calls from Dick, he thinks he should’ve. There’s still bits of Roy’s inventions and spare quivers scattered across the apartment.

Their last parting left Jason feeling more broken apart than he had in a while, for no reason other than he felt more deeply for Roy than he did about anyone else and his inability to express that led to him feeling isolated and alone.

His thumb hovers over the archer’s contact for longer than Jason would ever admit. He takes another look at the apartment—it’s an apartment, not a safehouse, and Roy would insist there’s no difference, but he was never like Jason, never so afraid of living a real life that he kept himself so buried in missions that he doesn’t have time—and he hits call.

He takes a shaky breath as the phone rings once, twice, three times, and then Roy’s sleep-softened voice filters through the speakers.

“Jaybird? It’s like-“ He pauses, probably checking a clock, then continues, “One thirty in the morning. Is something wrong?”

Jason checks the clock and curses himself. “Hey, uh, sorry Roy, I didn’t realize how late it was. I can call back later if you-“

“Nuh uh baby bird. You woke me up for something at this unholy hour. Talk.” Roy demands. It would’ve been more intimidating if he hadn’t yawned in the middle of it. Either way, Jason hears what he doesn’t say, what they’ve never had to say. _It’s ok, I’m here for you, you aren’t on your own anymore._

Jason sits heavily on the couch. “There’s a-“ He stops. He can’t even explain it to himself, let alone Roy, so he changes track, “-A drug ring. New one, here in Gotham. Selling psychedelics laced with poison. I could use some help.”

Roy’s quiet, and Jason knows he heard what Jason hadn’t said. _I don’t know, but I need help. I’m not ready to talk yet, but I know you will help._

“Sure, Jaybird. I can be there by five.”

The nickname and the earnestness makes the breath hitch in his throat. Roy had no idea what was going on, but he was willing to get up and be in Gotham as fast as possible to help. “No, you should sleep. Head over whenever you’re ready, I have to pull the files anyways.”

Roy agrees, even though they both know he’s pretty much out the door already. Jason absently worries at the sleeve of the sweatshirt Roy had left the last time he stayed in Gotham. It’s slung over the couch they’d nabbed from a garage sale. They exchange goodbyes, Jason tells him which safehouse he’s in, and the call ends.

He sets himself to the task of printing out the files he’s collected on the ring. By the time the sun began to rise, he was sitting in front of the whiteboard they’d gotten after the fourth complaint about holes and writing on the walls, it was filled with information they’d need.

He tugs on a sleeve and then realizes that he’s wearing the sweatshirt. It fit well, if a little baggy. He and Roy were similar in size, luckily, but where Jason was taller, more built for flipping through the air, Roy was stockier, built for the strength to draw and hold a bow. Visually they were fairly similar, but their clothes always highlighted the difference.

His phone informed him that it was eight am and that he’d missed a call from Bruce and a text from Roy giving him an ETA of 8:30.

Jason shrugs off the sweatshirt, ignoring how the loss of the cloth made the persistent ache in his autopsy scar worse.

He’s dealt with worse than a little psychosomatic pain.

Once Roy arrives, the planning is squared away quick, and they’re ready to go by noon. Roy doesn’t prod or even ask about what was bothering Jason.

The missed calls pile up in his phone, but with Roy tossing cheerios at him and a mission that night, he can’t quite bring himself to care.

The mission goes wrong. It always does. Luckily, they’ve both been in the game to expect it when the leader of the drug ring drops two tons of concrete on them. Jason, enhanced enough by the pit to have a faster reaction time, covers Roy when the rubble of the parking structure hits them. He feels it when his ribs break, feels a steel rod embed itself in his side.

Its unpleasant, but he knows he’ll survive it. Roy might not have. As it is, Roy’s also got a broken rib and at least one of his shoulders is dislocated.

They tag team digging themselves out, and they manage to flee the scene before the cops arrive. They stumble up the fire escape and Roy practically drags Jason into the bathroom so he can grab the first aid kit.

The faint buzz of blood loss and shock disappears when Roy cuts off Jason’s shirt and freezes at the sight of his torso.

Layered under bruises and over broken ribs is a gruesome, raised y-shaped autopsy scar marring his skin.

But Roy doesn’t say a word. He just cleans the gaping hole in his side and stitches it closed on both sides with the experienced hands that come with the job, wrapping his ribs carefully with a care Jason hasn’t experienced since before his death.

Roy helps him into a pair of sweatpants he’s sure were Roy’s at some point, based on the fact that they fall directly at his ankles, but their safehouses have both of their clothes mixed so thoroughly that there’s no real distinction anymore. Roy himself is wearing one of Jason’s Green Lantern t-shirts, courtesy of Oliver the last time he and Bruce were fighting. Bruce’s face at the next family meeting was priceless.

He gets up, wary of the bandages wrapped around his ribs, and begins to stumble around the kitchen, pulling various things from the dark wood cabinets. Roy came up behind him, gently pulling the can of beans he didn’t remember grabbing from his hands.

“Sorry baby bird, you’re going to bed.” Roy tried to gently pull him away from the cooktop, but Jason had a good inch and a half of height on him, and he barely swayed.

Jason shook off his hand. “I’m fine, Roy.”

Roy holds his wrist loosely. The point of contact practically burned against the numbness that spread itself across Jason’s whole body. “Jason.”

“Roy.”

The tension was palpable. In true Roy Harper fashion, Roy broke it by sweeping Jason off his feet. This, time though, it’s quite literal. He carries Jason through the apartment, depositing him gently onto the bed.

“Roy what the fuck!?” Jason practically shouts. Roy covers his mouth with a hand, shushing him.

“Shh. There’s a baby next door, remember? It’s like 3 am.”

The hand lingers for just a moment too long. When Roy pulls it away, Jason is already half asleep, but he looks up at Roy, trapped underneath the archer’s bodyweight. Roy blushes, removing his hand. He doesn’t move away, instead choosing to flop down on top of Jason, avoiding his ribs but somehow pinning him even further.

“Sleep now. Food later.”

Jason opens his mouth to argue, but Roy covers it again. By the time the hand moves, Jason’s already dead asleep.

_It’s dark. A cackling voice rings out from all around him. “Which hurts more? Forehand-“ A painful blow strikes itself across Jason’s cheek. “-or backhand?” Another blow, this time to the ribs. His hands are bound behind his back, he’s barefoot, stripped of all the gadgets and armor Bruce relied on him having. He thanks god that his domino hadn’t budged._

_Jason spits blood onto the shiny black shoes that tap their way around him. “Fuck you.”_

_The red-rimmed smile sours. “That’s not very nice, birdie.” The bar strikes twice more, cracking a rib and glancing off of his shoulder. “You know, the original boy wonder was much nicer. More fun, too.”_

_Jason grins, his teeth covered in blood. “I’m not him.”_

_Hands grasp at the torn Robin suit, pulling him up, up, up and this **didn’t happen why is it different** , and when he finally comes eye level with the face attached to the hands and sees Bruce he only has time to dimly think **oh I’m dreaming** , and he’s being blown up. Fire tears apart his body and it’s cold, too cold, much colder than an explosion should be. Then it’s black._

_Jason had never been glad to see his coffin before, but it’s about as close as he gets when he wakes up with his hands crossed over his chest. He looks around, and the blood freezes in his veins._

_Next to him, ginger hair combed and washed, lying flat in a suit, is Roy. He knows it’s a dream, it **has** to be a dream, but the sight of Roy sends tears cascading down his face. He shakes him, once, twice, three times, but Roy doesn’t wake up the was Jason did. He shouts for him, begging him to wake up, but he doesn’t stir. _

_He barely realizes when his fists meet the wooden lid of the coffin. Barely registers the wordless screaming coming from his throat, the blood pouring from his hands as he splinters it, as he digs his way out from under six feet of dirt._

_He’s just pulled himself up, just started to clear his lungs of the stale air and dirt he’d been breathing when_

A hand closes around his wrists. He shoots up, twisting and lunging, and by the time he’s blinked the green and the fear from his vision, he’s got Roy pinned. He drops the archer’s arm and stumbles back. He’s distantly grateful he didn’t grab the arm strapped to Roy’s chest in a sling.

“Roy, Roy I- Shit I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-“ He’s shaking. Roy unfurls himself from the pin and looks at him, hands facing palms up. Jason hates it, hates that his shoulders relax at the intentionally open posture, hates even more that it only works because it’s _Roy._ But his face is open, his eyes aren’t afraid. Not of him. Not angry, not scared, just open and honest concern for Jason. It makes his chest ache.

He’s still shaking, standing shirtless in the cold room, his chest heaving. His throat’s sore, and he realizes he must’ve been screaming.

Roy approaches him carefully, like one would a small animal. Jason hates that, too. Hates that a nightmare could have him so on edge he practically appreciates it. Roy wraps his arms around him and Jason practically collapses into the hug, clinging to his shirt. The momentum is enough to bring them both to their knees but Roy slows them enough that there shouldn’t be any new bruises.

“Shh Jaybird. You’re okay. You’re safe.” Roy murmurs. His voice is soft. Jason buries his face in Roy’s neck, while the other continues to whisper platitudes and calming words. Jason’s shaking so violently that Roy almost doesn’t catch when he starts crying.

It takes an hour before the tears to stop, and another fifteen minutes for the shaking. But Roy’s there the whole time, whispering to him about everything and nothing, a solid, caring presence.

It takes another five minutes to convince Roy to let him up because he _really has to pee, dammit_ , and eventually he finds himself standing in front of the mirrored medicine cabinet, unable to look away from the white hair and the scars and the _eyes_.

The hair didn’t bother him much. It was- it was hair. He’d tried to dye it but it didn’t stick, which was annoying, but otherwise he usually thought of it as an individualizer. Somehow, despite he and Dick being entirely different ethnicities, people always mixed them up. The streak was just another way of distancing himself.

The scars…the scars were worse. Autopsy scars and bullet holes riddle his body. The y-shaped one down his abdomen marked him as an impossibility, an abomination. A child returned from the grave to find his father had replaced him without a second thought. He used to wear his scars with pride, as Robin. Each scar meant a fight won, a night survived, a person saved. Now all he can see are muzzle flashes, bloody bodies, no one saved, just people killed. He’d gone to the grave a hero. He’d come back a killer.

The eyes were practically the worst. His eyes before had been blue, like his mom’s had been. Brighter, more piercing than Dick’s. But the pit always leaves its marks. Now Jason’s eyes are the green of the that cursed pit. Too green to be human. The color shifts when he moves, and he knows that they glow when he’s angry or scared. Everything else can be explained, could be hidden. The eyes were a constant reminder that he shouldn’t exist.

An arm snakes around his abdomen, startling him from his thoughts. Roy’s head rests on his shoulder, his other arm pressed between them in a sling.

“If you think too hard your brain’s gonna explode. What could possibly be worth that?” Roy jokes softly.

Jason laughs, the slight glow fading from his eyes as he tears them from his reflection. He turns around, facing Roy.

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” His voice is bitter and it turns the air sour. Roy’s arm is still loosely wrapped around him, and it grounds him to reality in a way he hasn’t been in a while.

Roy tugs him in close again, pushing Jason to lean on the counter, resting his head on the younger’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Jason says, and the tension bleeds from the air and his bones. He slumps against Roy, the other holding him easily.

“It’s ok. I know you’re still hurting. It can’t be easy.”

Fuck, Jason can’t believe him sometimes. He wakes him up in the middle of the night screaming, attacks him, has a panic attack, and somehow Roy finds the ability to be _understanding_. He’s just standing there in the off-white ocean themed bathroom Jason never bothered redecorating with the new mirror Roy never mentioned, and just holds him. Never for a second seems resentful or angry with him for it.

Jason stands there in his best friend’s arms—ok, singular arm, but the point stands—until he can’t take it anymore and he pushes Roy away, gentler than he’d have been with anyone else, but it’s still firm, and he flees to the living room. He snags his phone on the way, typing out some bullshit excuse to Babs and Dick he knows they’ll see through and then make up something better to pass onto the rest of his pseudo-family.

Jason clatters around the kitchen, slinging his phone somewhere on the couch to be found later, then looks for the ingredients to make something suitably complicated to mirror and drown out the twisted bullshit he’s doing his best not to be consumed by.

There’s three pots of shit going before Roy appears in the entrance to the kitchen, leaning on the wall. His posture is open and Jason can see a look he likes to call the “Jason-never-learned-this-particular-emotional-skill-and-I’m-going-to-teach-him” face, aka the “Serious emotions” face. He hates that face.

His next bell pepper is cut a little more violently than he intends but Roy doesn’t move until he’s got pasta in the pot and garlic bread in the oven.

Roy sits on the space Jason always leaves on the counter for him, he learned early on that Roy will just move things anyways. He quietly watches Jason stir and season and flip.

“Jason.”

Fuck he hates that voice. Roy only ever uses that voice with dying people and Jason. Usually it makes Jason chill out and reflect on his behavior. This time, it just pisses him off. Anger bubbles in his chest, behind the shattered ribs and his eyes blaze the same green of the pit.

“What!? What is it Roy? You want to tell me how badly I’m fucked up? Go ahead Dr. Fucking Doolittle. I get it, I’m emotionally stunted and kinda an asshole. I thought we both knew this.” The oven beeps and he practically slams the button to shut it off.

Roy waits for him to pull the bread out before continuing.

“That wasn’t what I was going to say. Also Dr. Doolittle talked to animals, he wasn’t a therapist.” Jason turns off burners and moves some of the food to serving bowls that his neighbor Mrs. Kowalcyzk—a 90-year-old Polish widow and pottery enthusiast—had gifted him.

“Why did you push me, Jason?”

Jason hears what Roy didn’t say. _Why do you **keep** pushing me away? _Jason doesn’t know if he can answer, but he tries. He tries because it’s Roy, and Roy always tries for him.

“Because I can’t keep doing this, Roy.” The words seem to suck the air out of the room.

Roy gets down from the counter. “Can’t keep doing _what_?”

Jason drags a hand down his face, rubbing at his eyes. “This. Us. Whatever the fuck it is. I can’t keep dealing with you being here and in my life and all your fucking _caring_ and then having you brush it off like all this isn’t different. I can’t keep having you know all my deepest fucking secrets and treating it like you’re not the only person on this goddamn earth who I can trust.”

Roy steps forward but that only makes Jason stumble backwards, and the words keep slipping from his tongue like they’d been waiting behind a dam, hoping for it to break.

“You’re the only fucking person to care enough about the dead kid to sit there and wait until I come back from nightmares about the fucking coffin I woke up in and you act like it doesn’t fucking _mean_ anything and I can’t take it anymore. I can’t take you caring when I know you won’t care the same way I do.”

He hears Roy’s breath hitch but can’t bring himself to look at the redhead, instead focusing on quelling the shaking in his hands and the hitching of his own breath. He only looks up when Roy pulls him close again.

“What possibly makes you think I don’t care about you in every way you’ll let me?”

The tears burn in Jason’s eyes again but he’s sick of crying, so instead he laughs. “I’m a resurrected asshole with emotional issues, more scars than I went to the grave with, a skunk streak, glowing eyes, a guy who’s kinda my dad but also the man who let my murderer walk free, and more grudges than Batman himself. I’m a little fucked up.”

Roy laughs into his shoulder. “I’m a former drug addict who fights monsters with a bow and arrow. I’m just as fucked up, Jason. But I love you, and that’s not gonna change. Only reason I never said it is because I was worried you’d get spooked.”

Jason freezes. Three words and he’s a deer in headlights, the terrifying Red Hood, everyone. Roy notices, though, and is quick to stop the panic in its tracks.

“You don’t have to say it back. I’ll know either way.”

Jason smiles, then pulls away. Roy looks worried, but Jason just pulls the rest of the food off the stove, puts it into more polish pottery, then moves it to the table.

They eat side-by-side, in a comfortable and warm silence, only broken when Jason notices Roy staring at him the same way he looks at a mechanical problem.

“What’s rattling around in that head of yours?” Jason asks.

Roy blinks and opens his mouth, pauses, then closes it again. Jason rolls his eyes.

“I’m pretty emotionally stable for now. Ask me anything.”

Roy gapes for a second at the blunt humor, but laughs anyways. “Okay, you got me. I was just wondering about what you said earlier. More scars than you went to the grave with. What changed with you coming back? We weren’t exactly close pre-Joker.”

Jason considers it for a second, setting his fork down.

“Well, I didn’t exactly get _scars_ from the explosion and the brutal beating, but there’s scars on my hands from the coffin, a couple of raised ones that healed post-resurrection. And then I have the literal ugliest fuckin’ autopsy scar, which you’ve seen. Aside from that, the resurrection itself left this white bullshit in my hair.”

“And the Lazarus Pit?” Roy sounds cautious asking about it, and Jason doesn’t blame him. The pit is a rough topic for all of them.

“Changed my eye color. Used to be blue. I’m also fairly zombie-ish because of it. Stronger, faster, enhanced senses, more agile. Sometimes I see ghosts, but that might be from crossing over and coming back.”

Roy hums thoughtfully. Jason lets out a silent breath when he realizes Roy isn’t disgusted by it.

“My metabolism’s fucked too. Faster than literally anyone else’s, and on top of that, my resting heart rate is like, 30, and it never goes up. Which is weird and unscientific. I have to eat all the time, but my heart rate is scary slow.”

Roy stares again, and a couple of seconds go by before Jason realizes it’s in wonder, not horror.

“Okay, that’s cool.”

Jason huffs a laugh. They wash up in the same silence from earlier, and Jason marvels at how easy this is for them.

Roy goes to shower, an ordeal with his formerly dislocated shoulder, and Jason manages to find his phone wedged behind the pillow he personally cross-stitched the words ‘Fuck Batman’ and a little red helmet onto—the other side says ‘Dead Robins Club’ with a Robin symbol and both Stephanie and Damian had received a matching one without a note post-rebirth, Jason found it funny, Bruce less so—and scrolled through the missed messages.

Damian’s ranged from his usual anger to straight-up worry, and Jason gave him a quick kid-safe explanation that he’s fine, thank you, and no, he shouldn’t come bearing deadly weapons.

Tim and Steph both had sent a couple of worried but generally not freaked out messages he chooses to respond to with a circle hand emoji and a promise of gossip respectively.

Duke had sent one short, but well-worded message that Jason took the time to genuinely respond to. He didn’t know the kid all that well, but he seemed nice enough and relatively un-batlike, so Jason figured he’d try to keep him that way.

Dick’s messages were rather frantic, and Jason assured him that he and Roy were fine, the mission went fine, no he didn’t mean to kill them, they brought the building down on themselves.

Alfred’s message was responded to with the promise of Sunday lunch and a check-up in the Batcave.

Roy comes out very much shirtless, drying his hair with the fish-embroidered towel the previous tenant couldn’t be bothered to take with them, and Jason’s phone rang with Bruce’s ringtone, a recording of a very drunk Dick imitating the ‘I am darkness, I am vengeance’ speech.

Jason grinned at Roy and answered the phone, “What’s up, B?”

Bruce’s voice growled out through the phone, “What’s up? What’s up is that you scared the shit out of Damian and Jon, then disappeared for two days, then I look at the news and find footage of the Red Hood and Arsenal going down in a building collapse, yet neither body was found, just a bloody piece of rebar. Then I get twenty-three frantic calls from Dick, twelve messages from Steph, and both Tim and Damian worrying themselves sick. Alfred is very displeased.”

Jason winces. Yeah, ok, he deserved that one. “Yeah, it’s a long story. Had a panic attack, dissociated for a while, coped by taking out a drug ring. The rebar didn’t even pierce a lung, by the way. Ribs are a little smashed up and Roy’s shoulder’s fucked for a while, but we’re fine.”

Tim’s voice pipes up and Jason mentally punches Bruce in the solar plexus for not telling him he’s on speaker. “That doesn’t sound fine, and by the way, disappearing is a dick move, Jason.”

Damian also chimes in, “Why is it called a ‘dick move’? Is that an English thing or is it Grayson’s fault?”

Roy, who’s pressed himself against Jason’s side, snickers while Jason chokes on a laugh and explains, “It’s an English saying, it basically means that something is mean or bad. Like, me disappearing and then getting crushed by a building was a dick move because it worried all of you. I’m totally running with it being named after Dick though, thanks kid.”

The kid clicks his tongue but Jason can tell he’s both relieved and amused.

“You’re coming back to the manor.” Bruce’s voice doesn’t invite argument, and it’s a testament to how tired he is that Jason almost considers not arguing. Almost.

“No can do boss-bat. I have some stuff to take care of with the mission. No physical activity until the ribs are healed, but I’ve got files and shit to update. Also I’m making sure Roy doesn’t push himself. Somehow I think he’s even more stubborn than me. I’ll be by on Sunday to see Alfred. I can come hang out then.”

Roy elbows him as Bruce huffs, but it’s the huff that means ‘It’s better than nothing so I’m gonna take it’ and Jason takes that as a win.

“Call Dick. He’s worried.”

They exchange some goodbyes and Jason hangs up.

“Can I kiss you?”

It startles him, and he turns to Roy with wide eyes. The archer laughs, nudging him.

“Sorry, you just look very cute talking to your family. It made me want to kiss you.”

Jason clears his throat and stares for another second before nodding, “Yeah, yeah you can kiss me.”

It’s Roy’s turn to look startled, but he recovers quickly and leans in to press his lips to Jason’s. It’s new and nice, and so very different from kissing Kori. Roy’s lips are chapped and warm where Kori’s had been softer.

It doesn’t last very long, Roy starts grinning and breaks the kiss.

“You’re good at that.”

Jason hums in mock-thoughtfulness. “I thought I could use some practice. Do you mind helping me out?”

Roy laughs, but agrees, and lets Jason pull him up and lead him to the bedroom.

**Author's Note:**

> Ok so like, idk how romance works, I'm aro. I also project onto Jason. Yes, they probably fuck after this but like, come on. Also RHATO? No way he, Roy, and Kori didn't fuck at LEAST once. Thank you and goodnight.


End file.
